


23rd Century Blues

by michellichand



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 19:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21307268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michellichand/pseuds/michellichand
Summary: It's a long way to New Vegas, and the Courier has a lot of nights before he gets what he wants. This is the story of Fallout: New Vegas, told only through each of the Courier's sleepless nights.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	23rd Century Blues

**NIGHT ONE**

If there was a word for the satisfying feeling of removing a Pip-Boy 3000 after an entire day of the damn thing clamping down on your arm, then the Courier didn't know it. Then again, he didn't know a lot of things. As he settled down by the campfire on the outskirts of Goodsprings, all of those questions came to the surface of his mind, much like his skin relaxed after no longer carrying all the weight of RobCo's personal information machine.

Who was he, and what the hell was he doing there?

The source of his questions was obvious. All he had to do was remove the cowboy hat one of the Goodsprings settlers had given to him and run a finger over the path the bullet had left behind in his short, curly hair. He had been shot in the head, clear as day. Yet, because of... God knows what... he had survived. He could still walk, talk, do all of those things. But the Courier's memory was as fuzzy as a faulty radio transmission, responding to his attempts to remember with nothing but very faint buzzing.

He didn't tell anyone about his little bullet-induced amnesia, not even Doc Mitchell, out of suspicion that if anyone knew just how little the Courier remembered of his past, they wouldn't have let him leave Goodsprings. Sunny Smiles had already spent most of the day telling him the basics, which helped him remember a few things. Nothing important like his name or where he had come from or why the hell he had a scar going all the way down his right leg, but still useful skills, like shooting a gun. For some reason, the mere act of placing his finger over the trigger of that old varmint rifle brought back a sweet sensation to his head, like a warm blanket draping over his body and assuring him that everything was going to be okay.

It was a similar sensation to the one currently seeping through his pores as he lit up the campfire, set down his PipBoy and got to work on turning it on to a radio signal he had picked up the instant after he stepped out of Doc Mitchell's house (did the Doc insulate his house with foil?). As he laid on the dusty floor, feeling each and every particle of dirt grind up against his vest, the Courier briefly considered just laying his head on the ground and going to sleep. Right there, with the campfire warming up one side of his body, whilst the other was subjected to the cold loneliness of the Wasteland... that was the closest the Courier had felt to being himself ever since he had woken up on Doc Mitchell's bed that day. Which only made it weird, because the Courier didn't know who he was. He had given Mitchell a few answers during his 'psychological evaluation', but the Courier himself didn't know if he believed anything he had just said. A part of him just wanted to get it done with. A part of him just wanted to be as far away from Goodsprings as possible.

Why? The people at the town weren't bad. Sure, some of them were way too eager to talk about incredibly simple things (one of the settlers seemed hellbent on explaining to him the concept of fixing his weapon, which the Courier was pretty sure he knew about, bullet be damned), but they were nice folk. They had opened themselves up to a stranger that had been shot in the head. Not a lot of people would do that, unless there were some caps included in the deal. Or maybe they would do it for free, if the person itself was important enough to gain them some favor later on. The Courier may not have known a lot of things, but he did know one simple fact: he was not important. The fact he didn't react to either the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion told him that.

Caesar? Cesar? He was still figuring out how that one should be said.

With a click, the fuzziness of the PipBoy's lackluster radio system gave way to the soothing voice of a man who called himself Mr. New Vegas. Those two words bounced around the Courier's confused mind, taking hold of the microphone and announcing their return for all to hear. New Vegas. That's where the man had gone off to... the man in the checkered coat. The man who had shot him. When he realized that he couldn't remember a thing about his past, the Courier felt himself being filled with a purpose, a singular desire, to find that man and... and... well, he didn't know what he wanted to do. Ask him why had he done the proverbial deed? Get revenge? Steal that supposedly fancy coat of his? The Courier _was_ running low on caps... he was still going to figure that out. 

All he knew was that thinking of the man in the checkered coat distracted him from thinking about everything else. About home. About his family. Would he ever remember them?

... the Wasteland suddenly got a bit colder. As Mr. New Vegas introduced a song (something about being kicked in the head, which made him grumble a little under his breath), the Courier got to work on setting up a bedroll. His vest would do for now. And the hat would cover his face pretty nice. He checked his other belongings. Varmint rifle on one hand, and a 9mm pistol that the Doc had gifted to him on the other. Always nearby, always ready.

That was strange. Even though the Courier couldn't remember a thing, he still remembered that the Wasteland was not to be trusted. He tipped his hat up a little, staring up at the moon and then at the road ahead of him. The short path to New Vegas had apparently been taken over by deathclaws, and though the Courier couldn't exactly figure out what they were supposed to be, he knew that anything named 'deathclaw' was something he should have avoid, at least until he got his hands on something better than that peashooter. The song got louder. He was starting to like it. A part of him started remembering the words (or maybe he just caught onto the extremely simple logic behind them). And then, a part of him began to worry. Was anyone listening in to his little sleep time ritual?

There was a reason behind the music, after all. If he didn't focus on it, he'd focus on the sounds all around him. Was that a bloatfly? A gecko? Or just a random piece of plant, bristling against the jagged edges of the Mojave Wasteland? He didn't want to think about it. Plus, he thought the image of a man sleeping near a radio with a gun in his hand would scare off any possible attackers. Especially those Powder Gangers he had heard about. For some reason, the Courier didn't feel scared or threatened by them. After all, they had been arrested first, right? Which meant they weren't that big of a deal. Plus, anyone who dressed up like that or talked like that had something to hide. Like a weakness. Or maybe, just maybe, they were really stupid.

Was this the kind of person the Courier was? Laying down on his back in the dirt, analyzing people he had only briefly seen before taking his belongings and going down the dusty road? He didn't like that either. Any answer to that big question was settling him off. Not knowing who he was held no answers, yes, but it also held no obligations. If he didn't know who he was, then that meant the path before him was wide open.

The Courier covered his face with the hat again, but now, all he could think about was that Powder Ganger, yelling at Tru... Truperson, as he fixed her radio. Did Goodsprings deserve that? After all they had done to him, was he really just going to give them a wave, a nod and a goodbye? He could at least do something for them. He could at least pay them back somehow. He could at least be someone, instead of just a courier. He could be a brand new person.

He could make a brand new name for himself.

Mr. New Vegas took over his thoughts again, this time introducing a song by Frank Sinatra, a name he recognized. As Frank's voice began to croon, the Courier stared up at that silly old moon itself. The sky of the Mojave Wasteland was beautiful. Sure, it was hard to see, with all that orange dust, but it was beautiful. A soothing kind of beauty, that brought instant relief to his conflicted bones. That same warm blanket, draping itself over him, telling him that everything was going to be alright.

Maybe he'd go back to Goodsprings. But for now, all he wanted to do was sleep. 


End file.
